Done
by bewareofdragons
Summary: McCoy was no stranger to sacrifice but there was only so much he could give up before he had nothing left to give.


**Done**

This was written for 'sacrifice' on my HC Bingo card. Hope you like it, please review!

 **Warning: Contains mild profanity.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or its characters. This is purely for personal enjoyment, not profit.**

McCoy was no stranger to sacrifice. All to many times he'd given up something for his patients, his crew, his family and his friends. How many extra shifts? In the midst of an epidemic or emergency, how many days had he gone without a full nights sleep or proper meal to heal the sick and tend the wounded? How many miracles had he pulled out of the bag? Lives he had saved and at what cost?

How many nights had he sacrificed sleep to sit with Jim through the night, watching, waiting, worrying that this time might be the one; the one where the Damn Kid's luck might finally run out. Long hours to find a cure Jim wasn't allergic too, always fearing he'd find it too late.

Hell, McCoy had risked his career for the kid, smuggling him aboard the Enterprise, when Nero had destroyed Vulcan. Without him, Jim would have nothing; he'd be some lowly ensign stuck on a pathetic excuse for a survey ship out the middle of damn nowhere. That was if Kirk was even still alive.

Without Leonard, Kirk would have bled out in some dark alley, years ago, after one fight too many and Jim had had the audacity to turn around and call him selfish. Him, Leonard McCoy, who'd always patched him up after every god-damned stupid stunt backfired. Him, the doctor who, just last month, had missed his first proper date in years to sit with Jim after his own inept body tired to kill him courtesy of some unknown allergen. Leonard could have handed Jim's care over to the doctor on duty but instead, he'd stayed.

McCoy had always been there for the kid; for years, he'd sat and listened as Jim drowned his sorrows in alcohol. Every time, he'd picked the kid up off the floor and patched him up. Afterwards, he would sacrifice his own bed, staying up all night making sure his friend didn't aspirate on his own vomit. McCoy wouldn't complain at all, not even when Jim knocked on his door at three in the bloody morning.

The routine became their life, the story of their friendship. Jim would try to push him away but McCoy would stay put. His friend would shout and scream, cry and sulk but still, Leonard would be there, refusing to budge. He wouldn't take no for an answer because that was what friends were for. They were were there for you when you needed them, even if you didn't want them to be.

Leonard had thought that that was what the two of them were, friends; apparently not because the one time he'd needed a friend in return, Jim had turned his back on him.

Two patients, both at immanent risk of dying. He can save them, but he can only save one; in the time that it takes to save them, the other dies. Two patients, both with an equal chance of survival. Leonard had to chose which one he was going to let die.

Maybe he should have let Jim die. Maybe he should have saved Lieutenant Doyle instead. He didn't deserve to die. It had been Doyle's last rotation. The man had a wife and newborn son back on earth. If Leonard was truthful to himself, he'd even had a sightly better chance of survival.

McCoy had chosen Jim though, not because he was the Captain but because he'd thought Jim was his friend.

Leonard had sacrificed his morals, the vows his life had revolved around for as long as he could remember. As a doctor, he was supposed to be impartial. A patient was a patient, every one with a right to the same care. He wasn't supposed to discriminate between them.

It had taken less than thirty seconds to make a decision and now McCoy had the rest of his life to live with it.

He was fed up of being made to chose, especially between the things he loved. Jocelynn had done it, Starfleet did it and now Jim was making him choose too. Hadn't he already sacrificed enough? There was only so much he could give up, that he could sacrifice, before he had nothing left to give.

How long before he was back to where he'd started, back on that shuttle where the pair of them had first met.

How long before he had nothing left but the clothes on his back and his bones?

Leonard looked at the letter of resignation lying on his desk.

 _Dammit, Jim._

He was done.


End file.
